Jerico exchanged a look with his fellow paladin. The shadow that fell across Lathaar’s eyes was all he needed to know that this visitor brought nothing but ill tidings.
That bad? he silently mouthed.
Maybe worse, Lathaar mouthed back.
“Well, the two of us are here,” Jerico said cheerfully. He grabbed one of the two ornate chairs set on either side of a tiny window-table and sat down. “Care to share what brought you to our Citadel?”
“It’s them orcs,” the farmer said. “Sorry, I should retreat things back a bit. My name is Jenava, from Selma village. We’re eighty miles south of here. Have you heard of us?”
“Of course we have,” Jerico said. “Before the Citadel fell, we used to travel the river to Selma every fall for cider brewed from your apples.”
The farmer smiled, his nerves easing at pleasant memories from a time before the second Gods’ War reshaped Dezrel.
“Yeah, them were the days,” he said. “My pa used to say our village owed our existence to the Citadel’s hungry students. Then it fell, and well, we made due. The war spared us, what with us being so far north up the river from the bridges. But something stirred up the orcs living in Omn. A group of ten crossed the Rigon on a boat and demanded a tithe.”
Jerico shot Lathaar a look, and his fellow paladin shrugged. So far as either of them knew, orcs were more known for smashing, grabbing, and pillaging whatever they desired than expecting something so formal as a tithe.
“A tithe?” he asked, unable to hide his incredulity.
“A goddamn tithe,” Jenava said. “Like they have some nation or king.”
“What did your village do?” Jerico prodded.
“We gave it to them. Ten armed orcs, eager for a fight? We gave what food we could spare, and plenty more we couldn’t, until nothing more fit in their boat. After that they said they’d be visiting other towns along the river, but come a week, they’d be back for more. That’s why I’m here. I’m asking for help. If we give any more, we’ll starve in the coming winter, But if you’d seen the look in their eyes, you’d know that telling them that ain’t an option. We’ll be dead either way.”
Jerico rose from his chair and patted the worried farmer on the shoulder.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “Nothing bad will happen to your village. Now if you don’t mind, I need to speak with my friend here.”
Jerico and Lathaar exited the room, shut the door, and descended several steps of the winding staircase so they might go unheard.
“The orcs picked an Abyss of a good time to start stirring up trouble,” Jerico grumbled.
“King Antonil feared they might set up a true kingdom when he marched east,” Lathaar said. “There might be truth to it. But what do we do?”
Jerico furrowed his brow. “What do we do? We go help them. I didn’t think this was in question.”
“A small group of farmers,” Lathaar said. He dropped the volume of his voice by half. “We’re in the middle of a war. Villages are displaced all the time. We could send Jenava on his way, with a message for anyone living alongside the Rigon to flee deeper into Ker.”
“You don’t want to help them?”
“Of course I want to help,” Lathaar said, punching the brick wall behind him. “The idea of doing nothing makes me want to vomit, but what of Aubrienna and Gregory? They’ve been entrusted to our care. Would you leave them behind? Gamble their safety with our students? We’re relying on Tarlak’s cleverness to keep their existence here a secret, but he’s not infallible, and Azariah is no fool. At any moment that self-proclaimed king might arrive at our Citadel with his fallen angels. Is this truly worth the risk?”
Jerico tried to view things from a rational point of view, but could see no alternative that made things any less clear. Yes, he had promised his friends to keep the two children safe. He had also sworn his entire life to protecting the innocent. To place Aubrienna on a pedestal above others simply due to friendship, or to declare Gregory more important than dozens of others due to his station at birth, directly contradicted his most deeply-held beliefs. All people were sacred. All were worthy of life, love, and happiness.
“We help those in need,” Jerico said. “That hasn’t changed. That must never change. I’ll go. It will only be a few days at most. You’ll still be here, and with our students to aid you.”
“And if a host of fallen arrive?” Lathaar asked. “Do you believe that will be enough?”
Jerico cracked a bitter smile. “Do you believe it’d be enough even if I were there with you?”
They both knew the answer. Lathaar looked away and slowly shook his head. Satisfied, Jerico continued: “If Azariah comes for us, our fate will not be in our hands, but in Ashhur’s. That hasn’t changed, either. I’m going to Selma. My mind is made up, so if you plan to keep me here, you better find your swords and go in my place.”
Jerico and Jenava sailed south along the Rigon in one of the Citadel’s many boats instead of the derelict raft the farmer had arrived on. Jenava was clearly at home with a paddle, to which Jerico was happy take advantage of. The hours passed peacefully, Jenava guiding the boat through the center of the wide river and singing songs that had been passed down through generations. Based on calculations made prior to leaving, they would cross the distance between the Citadel and Selma in a little under two days, which meant beating the orcs there by a day. Their boat stopped for nothing, and when either needed a break from rowing, they let the current lazily carry them.
“It’s a shame we don’t have one of those summoning lights the bigger villages got,” Jenava said on their second day on the river, as the two of them ate from the basket of food Jerico had brought. The basket even contained a sealed jar of cider that most certainly came from Selma, a fact that gave Jerico mild amusement.
“For the angels?” Jerico asked. Over the five years since Thulos’s defeat, the angels had passed about magical devices that could shine great lights into the sky, meant to catch the attention of distant angels to bring them flying in to solve whatever dilemma or danger befell the people.
“Yeah, it would have spared us all this trip,” Jenava said. “Surely one or two angels would have cleaned up those orcs nicely.”
Jenava didn’t know, Jerico realized. So far from the capital, the little village was likely weeks, if not months, from rumors carried by travelers reaching the eastern edges of Ker. At least it meant they had been spared the fallen’s initial rage, they had wantonly slaughtered any human with the poor fortune of living near the capital.
“The angels would bring you no safety or comfort,” Jerico said. “Events have turned...ill, in Mordeina.”
Over the next half hour, he explained the events to the quiet farmer. He told them of Avlimar’s collapse, the rebuilding of Devlimar, and Azariah’s eventual declaration of himself as king over humanity. Then came Ashhur’s condemnation, the horrendous Night of Black Wings, and the ensuing massacre of innocents. Jenava’s face darkened with the news, but he didn’t seem surprised.
“My pa told me of bad dreams he’d been having,” Jenava said. “Some of the older folks mentioned the same. Truth be told, we were nervous about calling for any angel to help us. That’s why we went north, to your Citadel, instead of south to Gendram to use their holy torch. Too many were fearful that Ashhur had abandoned us. Sounds like it was true.”
“Ashhur has not abandoned you,” Jerico said, much more defensively than he intended. “Am I not on my way to protect your friends and family?”
“You are,” Jenava said. He took up the oar and began paddling as he talked. He seemed unable or unwilling to meet Jerico’s gaze. “But you ain’t Ashhur.”
“Does a king not defend his borders by sending his solders? Or does it count only if he wields a sword at every border skirmish?”
Jenava scratched at the scraggly brown beard growing along the sides of his face.
“Maybe it’s just my upbringing, but we f
olk along the Rigon teach our children that the fault of a deed belongs to the hand that done it. After the war ended, we were told Ashhur left us his angels to protect us, and to praise Ashhur for that gift. Now those angels want to kill us. How come Ashhur gets none of that blame? I see you trying to have it both ways, paladin, and my mind don’t like it none.”
Now it was Jerico’s turn to look at the muddy water instead of Jenava’s brown eyes.
“You speak more truth than I’d like to hear,” he said softly. “I have seen enough of war and destruction to know that sometimes the quiet mouth issuing the order carries far more blame than the thousands enacting out that deed in their name.”
“Is that Selma?” Jerico asked as the thatched-roof homes appeared beyond the riverbank. It was a charming little place, one Jerico vaguely remembered from his days as a young student. Several docks marked the edge of the village, plus an enormous barn for storage just far enough from the water’s edge to keep it safe should the spring rains bring a flood. The homes themselves were a quarter-mile farther back on a winding dirt road. From within that collection rose thick plumes of black smoke.
“Aye, that’s home,” Jenava said. He slammed the oar into the water with panicked strength. “And it’s burning.”
“We have another day before the orcs said they’d return,” Jerico said, trying to maintain hope.
“That’s thinking orcs count the days and weeks the same as us. For both our sakes, grab the other oar and get to paddling. Your shield might already be needed!”
Jerico was all too happy to help, and ten minutes later their boat struck the docks. Jenava was the first out, tying the boat with the speed of a man who had crafted the necessary knots a hundred times before. Given the weight of his shield and platemail, Jerico waited until the boat was safely secured to step off. The well-worn boards groaned beneath his feet.
“Damn it, I was hoping it was just some foolhardy bonfire for cooking,” Jenava said, pointing to another boat tied to the docks. It was larger than the others nearby, painted with white and red stripes along its edges. “But that one ain’t one of ours.”
Jerico put a hand on the farmer’s shoulder.
“Pray to Ashhur for your family’s safety,” he said. “And then run with me.”
Jerico had managed far greater distances during the Gods’ War, though he was keenly reminded by muscles sore from two days on a cramped boat that he had been a much younger man at the time. His armor rattled as he ran, his eyes locked on the smoke. He wasn’t too late, he told himself. He wouldn’t stumble upon some horrific sight. Dezrel had enough suffering to last it a lifetime. It needn’t spread so far, nor taunt him with it now.
Boisterous cries mixed with fearful shouts and crying filled the air. Jerico readied his mace and shield as the first of the homes he and Jenava neared, and he slid off the path so he might hide behind it and observe.
Jenava slid in beside him. “Anyone hurt?”
Jerico observed the village’s crowded communal yard. It seemed the entire village had been rounded up and set before a roaring bonfire. From what he could tell, the fire was built of a rushed collection of the villagers’ belongings, be it clothes, tools, or furniture. The orcs, ten in number as Jenava had promised, formed a loose perimeter around them. Their armor was a chaotic assortment of chain and plate worn by soldiers from all four kingdoms across Dezrel, be it Neldar, Omn, Ker, or Mordan. No doubt the orcs had scavenged the armor from conquered city vaults, or looted the many battlefields scattered throughout the east. Their weapons were sharp and well-cared for, a fact that hardly surprised Jerico. The orcs had suffered life in the barren and crowded Vile Wedge. They knew how to fight, how to scavenge, and how to maintain what little resources they possessed.
As for Jenava’s question, Jerico saw a single body lying very still near the bonfire.
“Only one death so far,” Jerico said upon leaning back behind the house.
“Food!” one of the orcs shouted at the top of his lungs. “All we asked for was food! Not gold, not trinkets, just a tithe of food. Was that so wrong? No killing. We had no plans of killing. We be nice like that, but no, a tithe of food is just too damn much for you sorry lot!”
The crying, most of it from children, heightened in volume.
“Too much!” other orcs joined in.
“Yeah, just too much!”
“And so it looks like we gotta teach you some lessons,” the first orc resumed. “No food for us? Then nothing that ain’t food for you. That’s fair, right? You go on and keep that food we know you got hidden. You keep it, and you see if it’s worth it when we come a-knocking next year!”
The mockery obviously set Jenava’s blood to boiling, because his cheeks bloomed a bright red and his breathing quickened. Only Jerico’s firm hand kept the farmer from dashing around the corner to join the others in the village center.
“Calm yourself,” Jerico said. “You’re not even armed, and they carry weapons and armor scavenged from armies.”
The farmer’s jaw clenched so tight it looked like his teeth might crack.
“Fine,” he said. “Then what will you do?”
Jerico tightened his grip on Bonebreaker and shifted his shield into a more comfortable angle on his arm.
“Save your village,” he said with a mischievous grin. “Isn’t that why I’m here?”
After one last prayer to Ashhur, Jerico stepped around the home and casually sauntered toward the village center, Bonebreaker swinging playfully in a circle as he twirled it by its leather strap.
“Hey, hey, hey now,” Jerico said, and he grinned as if he had stumbled upon Dezrel’s wildest party. “What’s this I hear about taking tithes?”
The orcs turned his way with bulging eyes and hanging mouths. They certainly acted as if they recognized a paladin of Ashhur, but they also seemed baffled by his presence, his cockiness, and his very appearance. Jerico relied on all three.
“Get on home now, all of you,” he told the villagers. “There’s business to be handled.”
“St...stay where you are!” the largest of the orcs shouted.
“I said go home, now go,” Jerico said, louder and with the slightest hint of impatience. “Don’t make me say it thrice.”
The people of Selma scattered without further instruction. The attention of all ten orcs locked upon him, and while they were clearly frustrated with the sudden dispersal of the crowd, they dared not look away. Not when a shimmering light blazed across the surface of his shield, the very sight of it setting their eyes to water and their stomachs to knot.
“Who are you?” the leader asked. Unlike the other nine, he wore a long red cloak that, if Jerico’s guess were correct, had once been fancy draperies of some mansion or castle. “You these people’s king?”
“King?” Jerico asked, his stance always shifting so that he could observe the entire clearing. With the crowd still in the process of departing, the orcs would be able to close in on all sides of him. Jerico’s heart picked up in anticipation of battle. “No king. Just their protector.”
Ten to one, fully surrounded, without the benefit of surprise? The orcs didn’t have a chance.
Jerico dashed to the nearest with his shield leading. The orc had but a moment to lift his sword, thinking to block, but then holy light flared from the shield’s metal surface. It didn’t just blind. The orc rocked backward as if punched, and that was before the shield made contact. Bones shattered across his face and chest from the impact.
Twirling Bonebreaker above his head, Jerico sent it crashing back down upon another orc seeking to attack while he was distracted. The mace caved in his skull as if it were glass. He kicked the body away and spun again, knowing the easy part of the battle was over. He’d caught them overconfident and unaware, but now they roared with unleashed rage and came barreling in.
Instinct and training took over, all of it flowing with an innate sense of warning and guidance from Ashhur. He blocke
d an ax swing, smashed in a kneecap, and then chose a random direction and sprinted with his shield leading. The holy light smashed away his foes, giving him a momentary reprieve. He took advantage of it, Bonebreaker always in motion. Another orc fell, every bone in his ribs pulverized. A second tried to overwhelm him with a massive overhead smash of his sword. Jerico met it with his shield, and he grit his teeth and endured the sudden shock to his arm. A tremendous flash of light accompanied the impact. The metal of the sword cracked down the middle and then split in half. Jerico retaliated before the orc realized he was defenseless. One swing took off his jaw. The second split his head like a watermelon.
“That it?” he cried to keep them riled. “That all you bastards’ have for me?”
Again they tried to bury him, again he shifted and turned amid their numbers. Not quite the dancer that the Watcher had once been, but still never giving them a free strike at his back. Always turning, always swinging so they could not go on the offensive, or paid dearly if they tried. The flanged edges of his mace tore into exposed muscle. The light of his shield sent jolting pain up their limbs with every blocked blow. Another exchange of hits, and two more orcs fell at his feet. The rest, save one, broke for the boat. Jerico ignored the ones who fled, for the red-draped leader stalked toward him with a tremendous sword wielded in both his hands.
“I’m gonna roast you over a fire and make soup of your guts,” he said.
“Better than you have tried and failed. Killing me, that is. I don’t think anyone’s tried to eat me yet. Actually wait, there were those wolf-men of the North…”
The orc howled with fury. He relied on strength over skill, and against any other opponent it might have worked. Jerico braced his legs and intercepted the wide swing with his shield. He would not be moved. He would not be broken. He let his anger keep him rooted, let his faith keep his shield strong. The orc’s weapon exploded into shards, and as the metal splinters filled the air, Jerico pressed forward like a charging bull. His shield struck the orc in the chest. There came a momentary gasp of silence, and then power rolled through his body, ruining the aggressor. The orc collapsed, bones a mess, his innards jelly.
The King of the Fallen Page 10